


Across The Great Divide

by Devilc



Category: Friday Night Lights, Sons of Anarchy, Transamerica (2005)
Genre: Crossover, Future Fic, M/M, Transgender, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 02:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When circumstances beyond his control force Toby to take a leave of absence from work, he hops on his motorcycle and pays Bree and Calvin a visit and meets the new Hand that Calvin picked up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across The Great Divide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bond Girl (Bond_Girl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bond_Girl/gifts), [Bond_Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bond_Girl/gifts).



> The prompt was: **Transamerica. Toby.** _A roadtrip between two misfits towards self-discovery. Will the lost boy find himself (future!fic)? A pornstar or a petshop owner, sex vs. affection - will Toby ever figure it out? Will their flamboyant yet all-American family stay separated or patch things up? A deleted scene from the roadtrip? There aren't any secret right answers._
> 
> But since Bond-Girl is also a fan of (and requested) Sons of Anarchy, I came up with an idea on how to work that in. And, as I poked around her LJ to glean a few more clues, I noticed she had a Friday Night Lights tag, and bing, bang, POW! everything fell in to place.
> 
> (And yes, Bond-Girl, this is your pinch-hit. The one you were so excited and happy to see get claimed. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it.)
> 
> \---
> 
> Thanks to my beta. You know who you are, and you are made of win.

The good thing about working in porn is that it's not exactly a 9 to 5 job.

The shit thing about working in porn, is if you're a guy, it's hard work. And that's not always easy, even with Viagra and a fluffer.

The good thing about working for CaraCara Studios is that it's run by a small, tight-knit crew, and though it's a business, it's run by good people. You do right by them (show up on time and ready to go, don't trick around on the side and drop their name if you get busted, and don't let that monkey on your back become an 800-pound gorilla) and they'll do right by you. It's also located in a rural area, and it's a hell of a lot cheaper to live in Charming than it is to live in LA.

The bad thing about working for CaraCara Studios is that small, tight-knit crew is the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Original. SAMCRO is a motorcycle gang (they say "club", but who the fuck do they think they're kidding?) with a lot of enemies. Enemies who include organizations like the Mayans MC, the Nords MC, the IRA, the ATF, and the IRS. And right now because of some bullshit with the IRA and the ATF trying to build a RICO case off of that, the IRS has seized every computer that's got a connection to the SOA, which means that things are going to be shut down for a week or three until they can scrape up the cash to get new equipment and get CaraCara up and running again.

But, what the hell, Toby's been meaning to take some vacation and see Bree again. He packs the bare necessities and swings a leg over the 2008 Buell Blast SAMCRO bought him for jacking off like there was no tomorrow and bringing in some _sweet_ cash the week that almost everybody had the flu and was too sick to work. Oh, and also for that time he kept Lyla, the manager of CaraCara, (and Opie's Ol' Lady) out of jail with a little slight-of-hand involving a lump of hash the size of a walnut. (Okay, it's not a Harley Dyna like they ride, but it's not like he's not a member of SAMCRO, or even remotely a candidate for Prospect. But it's a Buell, and they were a division of Harley, and it's a motorcycle, so Toby gets the message: _You got our back, we've got yours._)

He swings by Lyla and Opie's house on the way out of town. "I'm off to see the parental unit in Northern Arizona." He scrawls Bree's home phone down on a slip of paper. "Call me when it's time to come back to work."

Because he's a damn idiot, or because he's been feeling itchy again to do things that he knows are stupid just to see if he can get away with them, Toby decides to take California State Route 4 over the High Sierra. Because nothing says fun like a twisty mountain road so narrow it doesn't have a center dividing line for huge stretches, or a descent that's nothing but an endless switchback with grades of up to **twenty-five percent** in some of the corners. He takes a certain pride in the fact that even though he projectile vomits from motion sickness about 7/8 of the way down, he manages to get his helmet off in time, _and_ he puts on a spectacular show for the car rounding the corner in the other lane.

At the foot of the pass, Toby pauses at the stop sign, flips the bird over his shoulder at Ebbetts Pass, and knows that if Chibbs and Jax say a certain road is "Evil", they're not kidding. Next time, he'll do the sane thing and take I-80 over Donner Pass, or take State Route 99 to Bakersfield and from there take State Route 58 over the Tehachapi Pass. Maybe.

He pulls into the first motel with a vacancy sign and sleeps like a log.

Next day is Vegas. He finds the hotel/truckstop that husband and wife team told him about in Sparks, and they are right, the food is good and the showers are hot. Toby takes their word that the rooms are cheap, because he's still damp from the shower when he gets propositioned, just like he thought he would. There's nothing like getting laid, getting paid, and getting a place to sleep for the night. It's a win-win-win situation.

He's on the road by 8am and in Kingman when it dawns on him he hasn't called Bree yet. He pulls over at the next gas station and dials.

"Hello, Calvin Many Goats' Ranch." The voice on the other end of the line isn't Calvin's and it's certainly not Bree's. And for a split second, Toby wonders if he's called the wrong number except, no, the guy clearly said Calvin Many Goats.

"Can I talk to Bree or Calvin?"

"Sorry, no can do. They're in town, picking up supplies." The speaker's got a soft southern accent. It goes straight to Toby's dick. "Can I take a message?"

"Yeah, tell Bree that Toby called. Sorry about the short notice, but I'm going to be there tonight."

Pause. "What time?"

"I dunno," Toby says, shifting, trying to get his now too-tight jeans and chaps more comfortable, "I'm in Kingman right now."

"So, probably about seven ... maybe six hours?" The guy drawls the words out. "We'll leave the light on for you."

Toby _throbs_ in his jeans as he says, "See you then."

As he pulls the bike back into traffic, it dawns on Toby that he never got the mystery man's name. Of course, with his luck, the guy probably looks like Munson. He shudders slightly at the thought. Whatever. It helps him clear his mind and focus on the road ahead as he starts the on the I-40 towards Flagstaff.

*****

The guy's name is Tim and he's Calvin's new ranch hand and he's got about four inches on Toby, a chin length mop of sun-kissed brown hair, cheekbones to die for, is _built_ but not musclebound, and he's got some of the most striking eyes Toby's ever seen, all tawny hazel and gleaming like a cat's.

In short, he's so fucking beautiful that Toby wants to sink to his knees and blow him on general principles.

They held dinner on Toby's account, and it's a good thing that Tim (who was out mending fences all afternoon with his little mutt, Skeeter) only has eyes for his plate and doesn't seem to notice how tongue tangled and flustered Toby gets from trying not to stare at him and at the same time, have a polite conversation with Bree and Calvin. As soon as Tim is done tearing through his second helping of lasagna, he excuses himself, puts his plate in the dishwasher and bids them all a good night as he heads out to an old single-wide mobile home surrounded by a windbreak of scraggly elm trees down by the barn.

"Gotta tend to that menagerie of his." Bree smiles as she speaks, and reaches over and affectionately ruffles Calvin's hair. Bree's always going to be a little prissy, but now, after two years spent out here with Calvin, the uptightness, the stiffness, has gone out of her. She's happy, Toby realizes, really happy here with Calvin.

Toby pushes back from the table and belches happily; Bree looks disapprovingly at him in the split second before he can utter his pardons. "That was a great lasagna, Bree. Thanks."

"Oh, don't thank me," she replies demurely, gracefully putting a hand to her chest. "Tim made it."

Calvin smiles and nods. "Boy's a good cook." Pause. "You are too, honey," he adds quickly, "but it's good to know there's a back up when we need it."

"So, what's his story?" Toby asks, because with an accent like that, Tim's clearly not a local, and he never made mention of being a cousin of some sort.

Bree chuckles softly. "Oh you know Calvin, Toby, always doing the right thing by strays."

Calvin looks indulgently at her, then says, "Found him and his old truck broke down at the side of the road after an early spring snow storm. Just him and that little Skeeter, shivering from the cold. Didn't have no money, following an offer of maybe a job at the airstrip in CalNevAri. Took him home, fed him some enchiladas and woke up the next morning to find him feeding the chickens and getting the eggs out of the coop."

Bree shudders slightly at the mention of the chicken coop, and yeah, Toby can see her here in this ranch house with its tile floors, braided rugs, well polished wood, and little chintz curtains, but trying to picture her in the dusty straw (not to mention the shit and feathers) of a chicken coop trying to get eggs away from broody hens? Oh, hell no.

"Took him back to his truck," Calvin continues, "Could tell right away from the puddle of oil under it that the news was not good. As soon as we got the hood popped, we could see that that old bucket of bolts was never going to run again."

Bree smiles a little sadly. "He didn't seem to have any people, just that little dog."

"Oh, he's got people," Calvin says, "but he's also got his pride. And those people he wouldn't be too proud to reach out to are just as down on their luck as him, and he doesn't want to be a burden on them. Plus," Calvin smiles ear to ear, "he brought me a genuine Texas longhorn steer, and I've always wanted one of those."

Bree looks at Toby, "He's really just the nicest boy."

Calvin scoffs at that. "Boy! He's a man. A _good_ man."

"A good man is hard to find," Toby says, smiling and nodding as he speaks. The platitude seems to please Bree. _Personally, I think a hard man is good to find. Is Tim one of those for me? Or is he all about the ladies?_

After two long days on the bike and a big plate of garlicky Italian goodness, Toby is done. He showers the dirt and grime of the road off, climbs into crisp cotton sheets (would Bree have anything but?), and is out as soon as his head hits the pillow.

*****

He misses the earliest part of the day, of course, but he never was one for getting up at the ass-crack of dawn. Bree, bless her, has coffee still on when he stumbles down the hall, scrubbing blearily at his eyes, and he knows he's probably got some gnarly bed-head going on, what with his hair being wet and all when he sacked out. He pours himself a bowl of raisin bran and tucks in.

Bree's got her hair in rollers and has a fluffy pink robe on and snorts with laughter when she sees him, reaching out like she's going to ruffle his hair, then hesitates. "Oh, I ... I, um, ... I like you better with your hair it's natural color, not that bleach blond." Her voice is soft and even lower than usual.

He takes her hand and guides it to his head. "You can touch my hair, you know. You're --" Well, no Bree is _not_ his Mom. But she's not his Dad, either. Not any more. And "Parent" sounds so stiff and formal. He looks her in the eye and says softly, "I'm your son, Bree. People are allowed to do this to their kids."

Her smile reaches her eyes and her fingers curl gently and card through his hair before she takes her hand away. There's always one weird and awkward moment every time they meet up, and then it's all good after that. Toby's just glad they got it out of the way early on. "So how long will you be visiting?" She asks, and he can't quite read the emotion in her eyes.

He pauses, setting the spoon against the edge of the bowl. It's Corelle, cream colored with a subtle teal pattern along the rim. Practical, well made, understated, and yet, feminine. It's so very, very Bree to have a dish like this. "I don't know, Bree. Until work calls me back, until I get bored, or until it's time for me to leave. Whichever comes first."

Bree's mouth tightens a bit when he mentions work. She's never been completely happy about his doing porn. In what Toby knows is the steadiest voice she can manage, Bree says, "Oh, is there a problem with work?"

"On CaraCara's end, yes. There's a forced hiatus right now. Some legal details that need to get sorted out. So," he lightens his tone and puts on what he knows is his most charming smile, "I figure if I'm going to have to take a few weeks off, it would be real assholish --"

"Language," Bree admonishes.

Inwardly he rolls his eyes. "It would be very thoughtless of me if I didn't take some time to come visit you and Calvin. So, here I am." He spreads his arms.

"I just wish you'd given us a little more warning -- I would've planned something special for today."

He cradles the coffee cup in both hands, savoring the aroma, before he answers, "My bad. But, sometimes, ordinary is good. Besides, I figure, after lunch, I can go out and work with Calvin and Tim. Gotta stay trim."

At lunch he forces himself to smile and talk politely to Tim as opposed to just staring at him and drooling. "See anything interesting when you walked the fences this morning?"

"Nope," Tim replies and takes a big bite of the Dagwood sandwich Toby and Bree made.

Okay ...

"So, um, I'll be joining you after lunch, helping you," Toby says.

"Sounds good." Calvin nods.

Tim frowns thoughtfully as he licks a bit of Cheetos dust (Bree says he loves Cheetos) off his fingers. "Calvin, why don't you take the afternoon off? Toby and I can walk the rest of that section of fence and be back about five."

Toby has to work hard to keep the kid-on-Christmas-morning grin off his face.

*****

Tim has a little notebook and a pen in his hand and makes notes about how the wash has cut a new path across the road. Calvin's fence is still okay, but even in a four-wheel-drive truck, they can't get across this gully, not the way it is now. Skeeter trots along the edge and whines softly as he looks down.

"And here I thought we'd be on horses," Toby mutters as he looks at the sandy bottom a good five feet straight down in front of him. Exposed roots and rocks stick out of the side.

"That's only for rounding up. Besides, you know how to ride a horse?"

Toby shakes his head.

"I'm still learning, so I stink on ice. Calvin's going to have to hire some wranglers, come fall." Tim doffs his Stetson and drags his hand through his sweat damp hair before replacing it.

Toby kicks a rock down into the newly formed ravine. "So, what now?"

Hands on hips, Tim ponders the horizon for a moment. "Well, we can go back now, or," he points to a notch in the hills, "through there there's a spring and a pond. It's a good day to go for a swim."

"Skinny dipping?"

Tim shrugs. "If you want." A mischievous glint enters his eye. "I know you're not shy about that sort of thing."

Riiiiight.

"So, what else has Bree told you about me?" Toby asks as he falls into step beside Tim.

Tim smirks, "Let's just say she didn't tell me _that_."

"So you've seen a few of my fine feature films?" Toby keeps his tone flip, but feels his chest puff with hope, only to have it deflate a little when Tim mentions a few CaraCara titles, which, at best, feature m/m/f scenes. (CaraCara doesn't really do any gay porn, but everybody there knows which market demographic tunes in to watch live streaming video of a guy jacking his dick with one hand and finger fucking his ass with the other. And anybody who's ever double-teamed a girl front and back knows that you can totally feel the other guy's dick in her, rubbing up against yours, and there's a market for that, too. Guys who are bi, bi-curious, or too chickenshit to admit to themselves they dig men.)

"Bree ever tell you about our trip across country, about the peyote-shaman?" he asks. Bree hasn't, so Toby launches into his tale of the last time he went swimming outside a pool. He gets to the punch line right about the time the pond comes into view, all red sand bottom, Cottonwoods and Willows tucked in around it. Skeeter, tongue lolling, heads straight for the water. There's a handful of cows clustered there, too, one of them a bronze-colored Longhorn who sniffs the air several times, snorts, and starts loping towards them, bellowing loudly all the way.

Toby clutches at Tim's arm and looks for a rock to climb on to, because Tim seems a little too casual about a fucking Longhorn bull clipping right along straight towards them.

"Relax," Tim says, brushing Toby's hand away. "Kit-Kat's just happy to see me." He reaches into the other pocket of his shirt and pulls out a twist of newspaper, which he unwraps to reveal a tannish colored lump. "Barley sugar, with a touch of molasses in it. He loves these."

"He's really friendly," Toby notes a few minutes later as Kit-Kat rubs his head up against Tim, who's skritching behind his ears and horns.

Tim smiles big at him, all dimples. (Oh god, he would have _dimples_ wouldn't he? Toby accepts the fact that he'll probably spend the rest of this trip whacking off at least once every four hours.) "Yeah, Kit-Kat's a mellow guy unless you're a wolf, a coyote, or a javelina."

Gingerly, Toby reaches out and runs his hand along one of those awesome, wicked horns. "You mess with the bull, you get the horns?"

Tim's eyes are deadly serious as he replies, "I saw him go after a boar once." He looks over at Skeeter who's rolling in a cow flap and they both laugh. "Dumb dog," Tim mutters. "Kit-Kat and the ladies will probably move on while we're swimming. There's a patch of grass with some big Dogwoods they like to go this time of day that's not far from here."

Toby leaves his boxer briefs on, telling Tim that he doesn't want to give him an inferiority complex. It earns him a good dunking.

*****

"Texas forever?" Toby asks, reaching out and lightly skimming the tattoo with a finger before he realizes and stops himself. It's just ... Tim's sitting next to him on this boulder -- hunkered really, knees tucked under his chin, arms wrapped around them -- as they dry themselves in the hot June sun, and his bicep (and the rest of his lean, buff body) is _right there_.

"Texas forever," Tim says and it's both dreamy and bittersweet, and his eyes focus on nothing in particular. "It's ... something I used to say back in my high school days. My friend, Jason, he was going to make it big and buy a ranch, and I was going to run it for him."

Something about the way he says it lets Toby know there's a long story behind it, but also that Tim doesn't want to tell it right now. "And here you are in Northern Arizona," he says.

Tim gives a little half smile. "Working on a ranch, learning how to run one." He sighs. "Learning all the things I didn't know about ranching."

"You and your buddy might get that ranch yet."

"No," Tim shakes his head. "He's in New York City, with a wife and kid, working for a sports agency, trying to make ends meet on fifty grand a year."

Toby whistles long and low because that kind of money doesn't go far in the Big Apple. He would know.

The breeze picks up a long lock of Tim's hair, waves it right in front of Toby's face. "But _I_ might get that ranch someday," Tim continues. "Just a little one to start. Just enough for Skeeter, me, and a few cows." He sighs happily then stands, holding down a hand for Toby.

Toby takes it, dusts his butt off after he gets to his feet. "And then a wife and kids?"

Tim's eyebrow arches and he shakes his head no. "Probably not. There was this one ..... We've taken different paths in life. Besides, I don't even want to think about that right now. Not until I have something to offer." He whistles for Skeeter as he climbs down and heads for his clothes.

It figures, Toby thinks, the good men are always straight, and the nice girls are always married.

*****

He and Tim head out the next morning (Toby insisted Bree and Calvin get him up early) with a load of heavy plywood, 2x4s, and 4x6 fence posts in the bed of the truck. The bridge they're building probably won't last through the next good storm, much less the monsoon season, but it will get them across the wash so they can inspect the rest of the fence. Tim's glad to have him along, because Calvin has business with his tribal counsel, and that's going to take most of the day.

"So, Texas State Football Championship," Toby begins as he pulls on a pair of rawhide work gloves.

"Doesn't pound any nails," Tim replies, tucking a hammer into the loop of his carpenter jeans. But then he smiles at a memory, "But it was useful for getting me beer underage as well just about every girl I asked, so I wouldn't call it a total waste." He hawks and spits and watches as Skeeter pounces on a bush, trying to see if he can scare a lizard up. "So, you google anything else interesting about me?"

"Nope." Toby settles a hat on his head to keep the worst of the sun off. "Anything you want to know about me?"

Tim pauses a long moment, fixes Toby with a direct look, and says, "My soon-to-be-ex-sister-in-law, Mindy, is a stripper. Nobody gets into that line of work because they've got a happy story to tell." He adjusts the hat on his head. "I don't want to pry."

"There's really not much to tell." Because, no, in a way, there isn't. There's thousands of other people with stories like his, only, his hasn't ended up with him dead in an alley or a squat, or in prison. And most people don't want to hear the truth about how fucked up his life was, or even still is.

"Tobster, your dad's a woman and you both took a road trip together and got ripped of by a peyote-shaman and you bumped into a guy whose last name is Many Goats. Nope, not a damn thing there at all."

Toby has to laugh. Tim might be a man of few words, but they're good ones.

He doesn't tell Tim _everything_, but yeah, as they work (and they make a pretty good team, because they both have a knack of knowing what the other wants before he can ask for it), Toby tells him about his mom dying and how he ran away from home, and hustled, and stole, and got high in New York, and how Bree lied at first about who she was. (He leaves out the bits about how his stepfather molested him and how he came on to Bree before he knew she was his father.)

"So, what are you going to do next?" Tim asks around the nails between his lips as he goes down on all fours (and oh, the ideas that gives Toby) to start pounding the decking on.

Toby takes a long guzzle of Gatorade and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Honestly, I don't have a fucking clue. I guess I better get one, because studding for CaraCara isn't going to last forever." He crawls over to the other end of the sheet of splintery plywood and hammers in nails, working his way towards Tim. "I guess I could ... I really don't have a fucking clue." Pause. "I'll figure that out when the time comes."

Tim winks at him, face to face. "My strategy, too."

Toby can't resist. "You have a secret career in porn?" He asks, all innocence and big eyes.

Tim laughs so hard he rocks back on to his ass.

Toby doesn't think, just leans forward and kisses him, knocking their hats off.

Tim freezes stock-still and Toby jerks away. "Shit, man, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have -- it won't happen again."

Tim's eyes gleam with amusement. "Just startled me, is all." He reaches for his hat.

"So ..." the word dribbles out of Toby's mouth.

"Did I face punch you?"

Toby laughs and lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Sorry for startling you."

"You're not the first guy to kiss me."

And there's just something so damn smug and knowing in Tim's eyes that Toby just has to shut him up with another kiss, in fact, he presses Tim back on to the plywood, and climbs on top, and whispers, "Oh yeah, what about him?" in his most teasing tone when they break.

Clouds flicker through Tim's eyes. "He's in New York, with a wife and kid."

_Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!_ Toby yells at himself on the inside, but he summons all of his bravado as he says, "But I'm here now," and kisses Tim again, tugging at the pearl-snap buttons on the front of his shirt.

He blows Tim right there, the sound of Tim's boot heels slip-sliding on the plywood, and his ragged gasps, and desperate _Oh, Tobys_ are music to his ears. He's so in to it, that he doesn't quite realize that Tim's trying to warn him until Tim's hands clench in his hair and wrench him away. Feeling sheepish, Toby fishes the bandanna out of his back pocket and wipes the come off of Tim's washboard abs, and if he lingers a bit on the treasure trail (because he's always found them sexy as fuck) in between the Davids (and a mighty fine pair of them, too), who can blame him?

"Get in the truck. Now." Tim's voice snaps him back into reality.

"What?" The sinking sensation instantly starts in his belly. Tim's gotten what he wants and now .... "Why?"

The look in Tim's eyes sears him like a hot knife. "Because we are not doing what comes next on a piece of damn plywood. That's why."

_OH._

Tim whistles for Skeeter and all but pitches him in the truck, he's in such a hurry.

*****

Bree wasn't kidding when she said that Tim had a menagerie. Toby registers the smell of several animals (but it's good, clean, animal smells) and several kinds of hoots, chitters, whistles, and chirrups, and has a vague impression of some birdcages as Tim puts him in a lip-lock and backs him, the both of them shedding clothes all the way, down the hall to his bed, which does not have crisp cotton sheets smelling of fabric softener, but which are rumpled and wash-faded and smell like Tim.

There's no _Fucking_ fucking, because neither of them has a condom handy, and it's 45 minutes to town, but there's plenty of exploring each other's 2000 body parts and two rounds of bump and grind, and Tim's tongue snakes around his cock like nothing Toby's ever had before. And when they're done (and by done, Toby means that right now, not even a bump of crank on top of Viagra and a fluffer could get him up), he rolls over and there's an angry hiss right in his face.

"Trigger. Shut. Up." Tim groans at the ferret who bounds over Toby to land on his chest. "It's Toby, he's -- " Tim smiles lopsidedly over at him " -- more than cool."

Toby, for his part, has a slap-happy grin on his face that won't go away and he can't figure out why. Finally, he says, "Y'know, I kind of did think about starting a pet store at one point. I've always thought ferrets were kind of nifty."

Tim doesn't say anything, but his eyes _glow_ as he looks at Toby, and that's when Toby figures it out.

All his life he's fucked people for two reasons: because he needed something from them, or because it was work.

And this isn't either of those.

Toby's not sure that this is love, but this is the first time he's liked a person, _really liked_ a person he's had sex with.

It's new.

And different.

(Tim kisses him on the shoulder as he snuggles against him. Trigger chirrups.)

And good.


End file.
